


Freedom Soon Will Come

by ruric



Category: Andromeda, Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-07
Updated: 2009-03-07
Packaged: 2017-11-13 17:30:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/505977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruric/pseuds/ruric
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the Satedan army.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Freedom Soon Will Come

The hand across his mouth sends Ronon’s fingers clawing over concrete towards his weapon, body tensing from the adrenalin surge even as his brain is trying to shake off the remnants of sleep. It takes seconds before he realises the hand, and the smell of the man above him, are known and safe.

Sateda has taken longer to fall than any of them expected, but then the Satedan people are proud and fierce. Their cities in ruins, their families dead, contact with anything resembling command lost, but the shattered remnants of squadrons and civilians find each other and continue to fight. Surrender’s not in their nature – even when they know the Wraith are playing with them – better to stand on your feet than die on your knees. 

He blink up into the shadow that is Tyr, and Ronon’s fingers wrap around Tyr’s arm, stroke from elbow to wrist, over tense muscle, to let him know he’s awake. Day’s blurring into weeks and months and exhaustion has given them all overwound reflexes. Liable to get a knife in the guts as much as a welcoming hand if you startle someone awake.

The ends of Tyr’s braids brush against Ronon’s face, fingers peeled from his mouth and replaced with Tyr’s lips and tongue. His kiss is hungry and a little desperate and Ronon wonders who they’re mourning tonight.

Each day a battle to survive, seeing friends cut down, so if what happens beneath the blankets is also a kind of war, it’s no surprise. Sometimes it’s gentle, sometimes hard, depends on who died during the day how close they are to you. Their silence is their complicity and understanding.

Tyr’s hand slides beneath the blanket, brushes Ronon’s shirt out of the way, fingers curling over the top of the leather of Ronon’s pants and tugging. 

Ronon obliges, rolls to hands and knees, half hard from Tyr’s kiss and the cursory brush of fingers. His body’s conditioned to react as fast to the possibility of pleasure as danger. He strips off his shirt because if this is all there is he will have the feel of Tyr’s skin. But they’ve all learned to only shed the clothes they can afford to lose. They sleep in what they’re wearing, fuck in it too, because while you can lose a shirt, precious sections to find boots or pants will cost you your life.

Ronon’s fingers push his pants down to his knees and he’s hard and aching for the touch of Tyr’s hands. His palms find concrete, bracing his body, a shiver of anticipation running down his spine, tightening his balls and coiling in his belly at the sound of Tyr spitting into his palm.

And Tyr’s there, hands curled around Ronon’s hips, fingers digging deep enough into muscle to bruise, Tyr’s heat and strength shoving into him. Ronon’s breath catches in his throat, heart hammering against his ribs, body protesting the burn as much as he welcomes it because it makes him feel alive.

Tyr’s plastered to his back, and Ronon shifts, taking both their weight. Fingers tangle in his hair, pulling his head up and Tyr’s breath is warm against his cheek.

“Breathe.”

Ronon’s breath whistles out past gritted teeth and the taste of copper bright on his tongue and it’s the closest he’s come to laughing in days. Tyr’s lips curve against his skin, before teeth find the soft spot at the curve of his neck and shoulder biting down and Ronon’s shuddering as Tyr pulls back then rocks forward again. 

Needing more Ronon shifts, reaching back to grip his cock, and Tyr’s fingers are there too, wrapping round his hand and together they find a rhythm and follow it and there’s nothing but this. The whisper of breath and slide of skin, the circle and twist of Tyr’s body, hitting the place inside him that makes him see stars and for a few minutes forget the Wraith.  
Their hands jerking him match the thrust of Tyr’s hips and Ronon’s panting in short sharp breaths. It never lasts long, that luxury they’ve lost with everything else, but to be so grounded firmly in his body, tipped over the edge, with Tyr following him down, it’s enough.

They clean up as best they can, shrug back into clothes and the sounds of sex surround them. Someone is crying, a voice rising over the sobs in a soothing whisper. 

He lifts the blanket a little and Tyr slides beneath, curling against Ronon’s back. The blanket offers little heat, Ronon’s body offers more and Tyr’s skin is chilled to the touch. 

While they live and breathe they’ll wreak vengeance on the Wraith and wrest something human from what’s left to them. 

They’re the walking dead.

They all know it and know that freedom soon will come.


End file.
